


The beautiful game

by NightingaleSong



Category: Benedict Cumberbatch - Fandom, British Actor RPF
Genre: Drinking, F/M, Smut, friends - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-05 04:38:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1805569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightingaleSong/pseuds/NightingaleSong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an evening drinking, Benedict persuades his friend to crash in his bed rather than go home. It's not the first time they've shared a bed, but maybe this time things will not be quite so platonic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Doritos?" There was no reply as I pulled the unopened bag out of the cupboard in anticipation. With the copious amounts of beer the two men had already imbibed, some extra carbs seemed like a very good plan.  A cut-off double shout of joy that quickly turned into sharp and biting curses had me hiding a grin and popping my head out to ask again. "Bad miss or a good save?"

"Fucking twat couldn't hit a whale in a pond. Christ knows what he's doing up front, he's playing like a fucking ballerina. They need to put...." he stopped as I cleared my throat and raised my eyebrows.

"Doritos?" I repeated, breaking into a slight smirk at his characteristic mix of enthusiasm and frustration. "With your beer?"

"Please." Ben huffed, settling himself back onto the sofa as the multitude of replays from every conceivable angle of the missed goal made way for the resumption of the match. 

James nodded enthusiastically at me, mumbling a mix of assent and thanks, his hair in even wilder curls than usual after he'd run his hands through it in exasperation, before he too focused his attention fully back on the screen.  "Come on you tossers, get on the ball. Stop fucking around defending and attack!"

I shook my head as I moved back to the counter, tipping the snacks into a large glass bowl before taking two more bottles of beer out of the fridge and carrying them all into the lounge.  Returning to the kitchen, I poured myself a glass of wine and prepared a small bowl of olives. As a roar of joy shook the walls I gathered the whole lot, including the nearly full bottle, to take with me. It was going to be a long evening.

 

 

By half-time the mellowing effect of two very large glasses of wine, mixed with the fact it was Friday and I was already exhausted, had me resting my head back on the sofa cushion, my eyes shutting for slightly longer with each blink. I enjoyed the buzz of alcohol in my limbs, the warmth of the room, the general feeling of contentment. The jarring out of light dozing from either the tv or the shouts of the two men, who were steadily becoming drunker and noisier as the match progressed, was not so enjoyable.  Yawning and stretching, I checked the clock. Nearly midnight.  "Time for me to go home." I announced, wriggling to get blood moving in my legs.

"Oh come on you slacker, I thought you were watching the match with us?" Ben leant over and playfully nudged my shoulder with his.

"I'm bloody knackered." I yawned again, stretching my legs and toes out in front of me. "It's been a long week."

"But it's Friday night. You don't have to get up early tomorrow."

"Kids been wearing you out?" James interrupted, returning from the kitchen with yet more beer. He frowned slightly at the detritus of empties scattered over the coffee table before shrugging and making just enough room for the two new bottles.

"Just a bit. You try a week of teaching number bonds to twenty, basic sentence construction and pointillism based on Eric Carle's The Very Hungry Caterpillar to thirty five and six year-olds and see how you feel on a Friday night!"

Ben turned and laughed, his open, unguarded laugh that was tinged with friendly affection. His eyes sparkled and I put the sudden fluttering in my stomach down to wine and exhaustion. "You taught pointillism, to five year-olds? Are you completely mad?"

"Evidently." I smiled back at him, the irritating fluttering rising into my chest. It was definitely time to go.  I reached forward with the intent of picking up my glass and bottle but before I got there, a warm, firm hand clasped onto my shoulder, pulling me back.

"Don't go." Bens voice was quiet, almost pleading, "Stay, please. You can sleep here, borrow one of my t-shirts if you like." he fixed me with fathomless verdigris eyes, something hiding in their depths that I couldn't quite grasp. I nodded. It wasn't as if I hadn't crashed in his bed before. Friends could do that. It was fine. All fine.

 


	2. Chapter 2

In the bathroom cupboard I found the box where Ben kept a small supply of the free toothbrushes from flights. Given the fact that the man couldn't be on time to save his life, he was in some ways remarkably organised. I smiled to myself as I thought of all the times he had slunk in late at the theatre or at restaurants, and the most memorable occasion that had left me missing a train connection and sitting in the rain for an hour. And yet, all these things were forgivable. He couldn't have been a better friend; he was thoughtful, attentive, considerate, interested and incredibly insightful. I'd come home from two harrowing days of Ofsted inspection a few months before to find my studio flat full of flowers, a bottle of my favourite sparkling wine, and a day pass to an exclusive spa. It was like being friends with an overexcited puppy and a traditional old soul all in one goofy, annoyingly attractive package.

Flicking on the light on the chest of drawers, I slid open the large wardrobe door to find a t-shirt. I quickly flipped through the ones on the top, the newer ones, until I came to the old favourites at the bottom. My fingers ran over soft, worn grey cotton and I pulled out my choice, stripping down to just my knickers and folding my clothes in a neat pile before sliding it over my head, the scent of storage and washing powder enjoyably soothing. Passing the mirror on the way back to the bed, my eyes caught sight of the geometric lines of the Brooklyn Bridge design and I couldn't help grinning with fond memories. It was the t-shirt he had worn when we first met. The night he had saved me from a drunk, sipped champagne from china mugs surrounded by my unpacked boxes, and laughed riotously at the ridiculous chandelier-style lampshade gracing my ceiling. That though, is a story for another day.  I settled into bed quickly, feeling a delicious combination of cool, crisp cotton enveloping me and the slightly spinning headiness of alcohol. In barely any time at all, I was asleep.

 

At some point in my sleep I became aware of being held. The telltale warmth of a long body pressed up against my back, a strong arm draped over my waist, fingertips brushing against the cotton of the t-shirt and the skin of my stomach where it had ridden up.  It was a comforting, reassuring gesture and I snuggled happily closer, drifting back into a deep and peaceful slumber.  A while later I woke slightly groggily, trying to work out the unexpected movement of the mattress, the increasing pressure of the hand on my stomach, pulling and holding me tightly, the warm breath against my ear. "Hmm? Ben?" I murmured, "wha...?"

"Shhhh," the sound, so close to my skin, followed by the flutter of soft lips over the rapid pulse in my neck, sent a tremble that mingled intoxicatingly with the slight spinning effect of alcohol. Those lips closed in again, firmer this time, peppering my neck from the curve of my jaw to the dip of my collarbone. At the same time, the hand on my stomach moved upwards, caressing, teasing my skin until it gently cupped and explored my breast. Long, agile fingers squeezed and hardened my nipple, gentle but firm enough to send a throb of desire that had me moaning and arching, pressing my head back towards the delights of his mouth and my hips into the strong lean body behind me. I forgot my confusion as i pushed back into the telltale solidity of his arousal, an action that drew a wanton growl from deep in his throat and completely short-circuited my ability to think. He rolled his hips against me, his hardness pushing into the crease of my buttocks as he breathed heavily against my shoulder, teeth nipping lightly along the crest of muscle before moving to take the lobe of my ear between his eager lips. My body responded autonomically, arousal taking over as I continued to push back into his movements, circling and rocking, chasing the spiralling need blooming within me.

I tried to turn my head, needing to get my mouth on his, but the position was wrong. "Mmm, yes," he grunted, shifting backwards and pulling me onto my back. Immediately his mouth was over mine, sucking my bottom lip between his, arms braced on either side of my head. In one graceful movement he was hovering over me, broad shoulders holding him easily, pecs and biceps knotting and veins popping enticingly.  His legs nudged mine apart as he lowered himself gently until the clothed tip of his erection just touched my skin, the sensation causing me to moan and open my mouth, eagerly seeking the wet heat of his.

His tongue snaked inside, teasing and curious, the intensity of our kiss increasing rapidly, my head spinning and whirling with desire and the effects of slightly too much wine. He lowered his body smoothly, steadily pressing against my chest, then stomach and finally pushing his erection firmly against me. I could feel the sticky wetness growing across the front of his pyjama trousers and my breath caught as I pulled him tighter, needing him pressed harder into my own aching dampness.  He began to move, slowly, steadily, pushing and sliding his length against me, kissing me fiercely and panting small moans of encouragement.  I gripped him to me, feeling the muscles tensing in his back, following his undulating movements until my hands edged under the elasticated waistband of his pyjama trousers, pausing there a moment before continuing down to grasp and knead the globes of his firm buttocks. He gasped into my mouth, his kissing now wet and frantic, his hips increasing in pace and pressure before suddenly pulling away, raising himself back over me on those strong arms, his mouth open and panting staccato sounds of "God...sto....stop," while I blinked at the loss of contact.  He bit his bottom lip with heavily hooded eyes, the most wantonly seductive sight I had ever see. "Sorry, was about to...." he grinned and dropped his head, his chest heaving.

I swallowed and stroked my hands over his shoulders, down his shaking arms. "Condom?" I asked quietly.  His head shot back up, those iridescent eyes almost lost to blackness as they bore into mine.

"Are you sure?" His voice was, low, rumbling, edged with velvet smoothness and hope. I nodded frantically. Through the haze of lust it seemed just as culpable to stop now as to continue. I needed to have him inside me, to consume him, to feel him, know him, to join together in the closest way possible, even though that would hardly be enough. At that moment I wanted to breathe with and through him, for our cells to combine. To be his heartbeat, his muscle, his very existence.

Giggling slightly as he shifted and rummaged impatiently in the bedside cabinet, I stripped off the  t-shirt and grinned when he triumphantly pulled out a foil packet, winking lasciviously as he held it up. Time seemed to slow as he bent back down to me, serious once more in his attentions, kissing my breasts reverently, exploring my body with his mouth and hands and unexpectedly taking his time. Finally, when I was a moaning, writhing mass beneath him, almost begging in my desperation, he first slid off my knickers and then his pyjama trousers, depositing them both on the floor at the side of the bed.  We stared at each other for a moment as he sat back on his heels between my legs, then he smiled and I nodded and he eased the condom over his flushed and dripping erection, closing his eyes and sighing as he rolled it down his length.  He bent down over me once more, kissing me gently as he eased himself into my tight heat. He swore as he pulled out again, burying his face into my neck and shuddering, his hips immediately finding a rhythm that would have us both at the edge in mere moments. I clung to him, my legs wrapping into his, my hips and back circling and arching, my own limbs shaking as he found my sweet spot over and over again, driving me relentlessly to climax. We mouthed wetly, unable to sustain a kiss through panting breaths. I moved my arms above my head, reaching for something to hold onto and his hands pressed into mine, our fingers lacing and squeezing as his hips jerked less rhythmically. I opened my eyes when he lifted his head, his mouth dropping open and his body stilling. As he pumped and cried out it was enough to send me with him and we held each other desperately while the world disappeared.

 

It was a little later, as he lay quietly next to me, one arm slung over my still naked stomach, his breathing slowing towards sleep, that reality hit me and I stared unblinking at the ceiling. Oh Christ, what had we done?

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

I awoke to birdsong and the sound of gentle breathing beside me. It was a few seconds before it dawned on me that the hand on my breast was not mine. The not-my hand on my naked breast. In fact, I seemed to be all naked. Oh.

I tried to keep still as the memories of the middle of the night flooded my mind, taking over my senses with pin-sharp recall. Panic shot through me with the knowledge of what we'd done, what we might have lost. How had it happened so suddenly, so out of the blue? Would he regret it? Did I? Could we stay good friends? Was that even possible? And, Christ, it was looking like one hell of a walk of shame home. 

As much as I'd sometimes hoped for us to be more than friends, it had never been like this in my imagination. Never something where I'd wake up and wonder how I'd let my rather drunk friend seduce and unravel me quite so completely. Whether when he awoke all I'd see in his eyes would be regret and awkwardness. I couldn't bear that thought.  Slowly, as silently as possible, I eased myself out from under his arm and slipped out of the bed. My stomach clenched at the sight of our abandoned clothing in an odd mix of anxiety, hope and loss.  I picked up the t-shirt and slid it back over my head, then quickly found a pair of his boxers on a pile of clean laundry and pulled them on too before tiptoeing out of the room.

I kept moving silently as I approached the kitchen, not sure if James was still in the flat. If he was, he could be in the other bedroom or still on the sofa. And if he had stayed I hoped to God he was too blotto to have heard anything. My already uncomfortably pounding pulse raced just a little faster. I took my time in the kitchen; filling and switching on the kettle, fetching a mug and a tea bag, selecting a teaspoon from the drawer.  Each action done deliberately, normally, as if everything was okay.  Each movement and item focused on in an attempt to control the visions swirling in my head. Tick. Tick. Tick. The clock marked time loudly in the silence, reminding me of the inevitable. Ben would wake up and he too would remember what we had done. Or I hoped he would remember. Regardless of the outcome, that at least had to be better than him not remembering.  I felt slightly sick at the possibility. Sense told me he had not been anywhere near that drunk, but a worried mind makes no allowances for sense.  I took my steaming mug of tea and headed out into the fresh air noting that the lounge at least was thankfully empty.

 

I looked out over the balustrade at the end of the roof garden. I loved the view from there. The patchwork of houses and gardens, those on the same road and the contrasting lines of those on the road perpendicular creating an interesting pattern. My own home lay only a few streets over. I glanced across, knowing from experience that I couldn't see it but needing to look once more now in case I never got the chance again.  Walking slowly along the perimeter, I plucked idly at some of the flowering plants, deadheading where needed before settling onto the bench seat that faced the house.  When I glanced up from taking a sip of tea, my heart hammered in my throat. He looked relaxed as he approached bare-footed with his striped pyjama trousers slung low on his narrow hips, a crumpled t-shirt with a faded logo softening the firm planes and muscles of his chest and arms, and his hair mussed and heartbreakingly unruly. I could see that his face was slightly pale, his eyes a little heavy and dark. Probably hungover then.  I forced a normal smile. "How are you feeling?" I asked, leaving the question deliberately obtuse and getting up to meet him, somehow not wanting to have this conversation sitting down.

He smiled easily, his expert fingers bringing a mug of coffee to those sumptuous lips before replying. Memories of what he had done with them both grinding in my gut. "Good morning." He paused, casting his eyes downwards, looking for something in the swirling liquid he cradled carefully. "Last night..."

I couldn't assess his tone or what he was about to say through the spike of adrenaline that kicked from my abdomen. I felt I couldn't breath, could hardly stand. All I could do was speak. Quickly. Stop him. If only for a moment. "Yes. Last night? What was the final score?" I knew I looked like a rabbit in the headlights.  I couldn't even stand still, moving my weight from foot to foot, trying to hold off the impulse of fight or flight. It was a deliberate evasion, I knew the score from my phone. 2-1. A loss. A prophetic one?

He looked at me for what seemed like an eternity.  Heavy, dull eyes slowly changing to vibrant, cut-crystal clarity. He reached for me, drawing me to him and wrapping his arms around me in a way that was neither regretful nor embarrassed. He kissed my neck, nipping the skin playfully, tenderly. "Final score from last night? One all I believe," he giggled into my ear, his breath minty with hints of coffee as he placed small kisses across my cheek. "Definitely requires a rematch."

Butterfly kisses on my nose, the corners of my mouth, my chin. Reassuring in their affection before those lips were over mine once more. Softly at first, not rushing but relishing in possibility. Slowly. Learning. Enjoying. By the time his hands slipped down and he giggled a soft hum of approval as his fingers found the waistband of his own boxer shorts covering my body our mouths were opening. Inviting. Hoping.

 

The voice came as an unexpected, and frankly unwanted, interruption. "Morning," James appeared in the doorway looking wrecked. He squinted uncomfortably in the light and rubbed his hand shakily over his face.

"Timing, you arse!" Ben shot loudly over his shoulder with a smile and the man stumbled back inside. He pulled me into a tight hug and whispered one word laden with intent. "Soon." The promise hung in the air like flecks of gold in the morning sun.

_Soon._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have various possibilities from here. I have a potential sequel, or a non-smutty, fluffy prequel of their first meeting mentioned in the first chapter, or I leave them here and do something completely different.... what would you like, dear readers?


End file.
